Heather Brager is a critically acclaimed juggler of calamity, an accomplished procrastinator, and shuffler of idioms. Her poetry and drawings can be found in various digital and print journals around the globe, and on the web. She currently resides in New England and prefers the precipice of where the Atlantic meets the sand to the official looking office where she spends most of her time.

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

finger the distorted balance ofcarefully breathing the same airafraid to open the door, butsitting close, with scars lefton your hearts and your arms byyears of unraveling, the pain ofre-stitching love back together

the night fire was drawn out of youin thunderous blindness, a fierce dragonwith a propensity for resistancewhen glass shattered, and once safe roomsignited with the blaze, in achapter that she has already read

she already knows where you have beenwhy you fuck in a hurryand wait for a rabid breaking point,but each justifiable choiceis a delicate line of poetrya lyric that replays in your headeach compulsive mistake, the beautiful poisonthat you both drank,and lived to accept